


Ghost of the Past

by spica_starson



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Reunions, Shani's Party, Temporary Amnesia, combining book!canon and game!canon bc game did our dandelion dirty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25709446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spica_starson/pseuds/spica_starson
Summary: “How do I know it’s actually you?”The calm, stony voice—a huge contrast to the earlier outburst, sent a strange chill down his spine. Geralt blinked at the bard, confusion in his pinched eyebrows.“Pardon me?”“How do I know,” he stomped closer to the Witcher fearlessly, pointing at his chest and huffing, “that you’re not simply a Doppler, or- or an elaborate trick to sour Geralt’s name? Hm?”Geralt and Dandelion reunites at Shani's party. It didn't go as well as Shani hoped it would.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	Ghost of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who finally decided to jump into the bandwagon and try her hand at re-writing [the mess that is Dandelion and Geralt's reunion in TW1](https://youtu.be/c1ha_d-CPHI)? This person right here :D I honestly intended to write a _very_ short one-shot, but it ended up spiraling out of control and turned into this beast. Still, I'm happy with how it turned out. 
> 
> Also, it should be noted that the Netflix show has no bearing whatsoever on this story. There‘s not enough fic or content in general that highlights the importance of Dandelion‘s friendship with Geralt in the books, and I wish to rectify that. Remember: Friendship can be just as, if not more important than any romance. If you‘ve come for romance or pre-slash, then this isn‘t the fic for you.
> 
> Anyway, hope you guys enjoy my take on it!

“...real! I’m telling you, Dandelion-”

“Shani, I saw it with my own eyes. You...you can’t possibly expect me to believe that he- No, Shani! I beg you, cease this nonsense talk. Please.”

Geralt stopped just below the stairs, keeping his breath still and quiet. Instead he closed his eyes, honing in to the two mingling voices. He immediately recognized the medic’s lilting tone, but the other voice...Dandelion, was it? An unfamiliar one, but carried quite the impression. _So this is the infamous bard Shani said she’s organizing the gathering for?_

Regardless, Geralt has a sneaking suspicion he knew the source of their argument.

“But you forget. I do know him, maybe not as well as you but...it _is_ Geralt, I’m certain of it. He may be a bit out of sorts, claims he can’t remember anything from before…so you could at least help him-”

“I mourned his loss for years, Shani,” cut in the stranger, whispered words harsh and breaking. “This certainly is a cruel joke, even for you, my dear.”

“Dandelion...forgive me. Truly.” The medic sounded so sad, regret lacing her words as she walked closer to the other individual judging from the light steps tapping against the floorboard. “It isn’t my intention to sour our reunion after so long, and I can’t ask you to believe me but…you deserve to know the truth. He was- _is_ a close friend of yours after all. I suppose you’ll just have to see for yourself.”

Conflict clouded the witcher’s mind, his nerves catching up to him as he continued up the stairs, this time making as much noise as he possibly could.

Another old friend of his in a life he could not remember. Another piece in a puzzle so barren it might as well have been non-existent. Cautious excitement and fear clashed in his chest, tight and clenching uncomfortably like an iron vice.

And here he thought Witchers were supposed to be stripped of their emotions. Was he even truly a Witcher then?

 _‘It was a bad idea to agree to come,’_ he grimaced.

And just as he was about to turn on his heel, they unceremoniously fell into his sight.

Which means he was within theirs too.

Shit.

Shani’s reaction was as he’d expected—a simple joy lighting up her pretty visage along with a smile not unlike the first time they met. But something was clearly off in the way her lips twisted, and he immediately realized why when he saw her eyes dart to the side, to-

_“No.”_

The man in question was dressed in an attire Geralt could only describe as...ornate. Impractical at worst. A regal wardrobe he often saw musicians and minstrels don in royal courts and the like. A plum bonnet flopped down his shoulder-length hair the color of straw, a single heron feather poking out from its side. On his right lay an instrument—a lute, by the looks of it. Not that he was ever an expert on musical instruments. Stopping his bad habit of taking in more things than what was necessary, Geralt forced his eyes to look at the man himself.

Part of him could not help but marvel at the rate of emotions that passed through the bard’s face in a mere few seconds; emotions he could not put a name to even if he tried.

The stranger— _Dandelion_ , he reminded himself—took a step back, blue eyes wide with- fear? Disbelief? _Anger_? Hands clenched on both sides as though he wanted to run far, far away from here. A strange, detached twinge of hurt pricked Geralt. He brushed it off.

“Greetings, Shani,” he nodded to the medic first, then: “and to you...Dandelion.”

A choked noise came from the troubadour. His breath hitched, pulse quickening—an obvious sign of panic in any human. The Witcher’s eyes flew to Shani, a silent plea for help. Surely he was just making things worse?

“But...but I saw you- no,” the bard shook his head, turned away sharply with a scowl. “It cannot be. It simply can’t.”

In his peripheral vision Geralt saw Shani duck her head before passing by him, taking the requested items from his hand with a gentle tug; whispered to him, “I’ll let you two talk it out,” before walking away.

And then they were alone. _Shit_.

Shani’s subsequent absence did not seem to have affected the bard at all, the man simply started pacing where he stood, murmurs escalating dramatically: “We were there. We were all there! Ciri said her goodbyes and- ugh! For fuck’s sake-”

Geralt stood there, dumbfounded. He felt...so out of his depth, more than ever before. Everything had been so simple up until that point. Even without his memories, he had something to go on—a purpose, a guiding hand. Something to cling to as he chased down shadows lurking just beyond his reach: a child to save, thieves and killers to track down and investigate...

Now the past finally caught up to him, and he’d only realized how ill-equipped he truly was-

“How do I know it’s actually you?”

The calm, stony voice—a huge contrast to the earlier outburst, sent a strange chill down his spine. Geralt blinked at the bard, confusion in his pinched eyebrows.

“Pardon me?”

“How do I know,” he stomped closer to the Witcher fearlessly, pointing at his chest and huffing, “that you’re not simply a Doppler, or- or an elaborate trick to sour Geralt’s name? _Hm?_ ”

Indignation rose at an alarming rate within him at the accusation; his identity, the only thing he knew was irrefutably his questioned so flippantly—! But the anger dissipated into the air before he could act upon it, blew right off of him like a candle snuffed out in a storm.

While his accusations about him being a mimic is easily dispelled, Dandelion was right about one thing—he didn’t know the truth. Could not possibly know. Not with this huge, gaping hole in his memories; everything that had made him the Geralt in his friends’ eyes. For all he knew there might be a different Geralt out there, one who had died and was now resting peacefully in his hypothetical tomb. A different Geralt who was surrounded by people he loved. Someone who might not even be him.

The least he could do was be honest with the man.

“I’m afraid I...I have no way to prove it to you, Dandelion. Other than the fact that I am no doppler,” said Geralt, no longer finding it in him to fight. This was not a battle he could win with words—something he found to be one he lacked in skill and finesse. Avoiding the troubadour’s piercing gaze, he continued: “I don’t have anything to show you that I’m the same man you knew. No memories, no tangible proof of our…friendship to offer. I’m sorry.”

Perhaps he should have kept his eyes averted, let himself be politely oblivious to how this might have affected the man who was by all means a complete stranger to him. But for some reason, he didn’t. A huge mistake, clearly, when he saw something shatter inside Dandelion—how the fire that blazed in the surface fizzled out and left behind a hollow shell, his expression falling into something far too vulnerable despite the tough front he was putting on.

‘ _Shit,_ ’ thought Geralt, panic starting to build up. The unyielding mask fitted back over the bard’s face as he glared at the witcher fiercely, fists trembling. Then as sudden as it had returned, the fight left him. He walked away with a sigh betraying an age-old weariness, his back to the witcher in a plain dismissal.

Geralt knew he had undoubtedly damaged any possible amiability between them in the future, but he wanted to at the very least salvage whatever he had left with this strange man; whose grief rolled off of him in such strong waves in his presence not unlike Triss, a putrid smell he has never been fond of; who Shani and many others had claimed to be his ‘close friend’. Him, a witcher and a famous, traveling troubadour—good friends? What were the chances? Another strange detail in his apparently complicated life.

A detail he did not wish to give up on so easily, despite everything.

“I’m afraid some things…” he tried again, “…are impossible to explain. Perhaps we could just- sit down and talk. Have a drink or two. Then you can see for yourself if I’m the same Geralt you were friends with, if you wish.”

For a long time, Dandelion stood motionless; the harsh grip on the neck of his lute the only thing he can see from where he stood. Maybe Geralt was the one being terribly selfish for not stepping out of his life immediately, ending this chapter and starting a new one with other people across the Continent who might or might not have heard of the White Wolf.

But can you really blame him for not wanting to lose any more of himself than he already had?

“Alright,” the bard finally said, shoulders dropping. Surprised and pleased at his unexpected willingness, Geralt was about to suggest they be seated when he carried on talking.

“You’re correct to suggest that. We’ve been through so much together…” said Dandelion with a dull chuckle, “I would know. I would know.”

Geralt watched him, saying nothing.

“Moreover…” he turned around, and it was unmistakable to see now—the old grief reflected in his eyes, the sad curve of his lips when he not quite smiled at Geralt.

“Deep down, a part of me unfortunately refuses to stop being hopeful, dear Witcher.”

000

The party then went on as, well, smoothly as one could have predicted it would go.

Geralt quietly sipped on his drink, taking in how Dandelion was basically downing his without much of a respite, something that even Shani visibly disapproved of. After almost two-thirds of the bottle was gone, the medic snatched the alcoholic beverage right out of his hand, laughing in a way that did not convince even Geralt of the humor she found in their situation.

“Now, now, Dandelion,” she said, keeping the bottle deftly away from his prying fingers. “We’ve barely even got through the night, and Geralt’s guest has yet to arrive, you uncouth goose! It’s common courtesy to save getting wasted until then at the very least, don’t you agree?”

Glaring at the perpetrator, Dandelion sighed miserably before nodding, hiding his face within his folded arms. Shani frowned at him. Deciding the troubadour was a lost cause, she turned to Geralt in barely veiled desperation.

“That reminds me! Who’s this guest of yours, witcher?”

“Ah,” he coughed, voice taking a toll from the alcohol, “I invited Zoltan Chivay, he—”

“Zoltan?!” sputtered Dandelion suddenly, standing up in a flash, his chair tipping over behind him and clattered noisily. Several bottles threatened to topple off and spill its content all over the floor from the motion, but thankfully his witcher reflexes came to the rescue, snatching them off the table before it could fall to its doom.

That seemed to have finally set Shani off, the poor woman snapping: “Dandelion, please! Be reasonable!”

Her fury seemed to have been lost of the bard however, because he kept pushing, “Zoltan’s here in Vizima? And you’ve met the blasted dwarf?!”

“Yes,” allowed Geralt slowly, troubled by the strange upturn of the poet’s mood. “Just before I met Shani. I helped him fight off some bigoted individuals in the Outskirts…”

“Why that dwarf! I ought to-”

“Settle down, Dandelion! I’ve no doubt this friend of yours has his own problems to deal with. Furthermore, you’ve been acting like a child the whole night! Just because-” she froze, realizing her error a second too late. “Gods- wait. I didn’t mean to-”

“My dear Shani,” said the bard tiredly, face planted firmly behind his cupped hands, “the man I’ve thought dead for five years is now drinking together with us as though nothing had happened. With no single recollection whatsoever of our past history and friendship. Forgive me for my lack of hospitability tonight, friends, but…I do hope you both can understand.”

“No, I apologize as well,” sighed Shani, biting the inside of her cheek. “I should have thought it through a lot more before dumping this news onto you without any prior notice, Dandelion. This…gods, I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”

Said bard kept his silence for a bit longer, only taking another swig from his bottle. Then:

“Still, that does not excuse my poor behaviour on this lovely evening,” smiled the bard faintly, before raising his bottle high. “To old friendships.”

“To old friendships,” the witcher and medic unanimously said as they toasted.

A companionable silence, much more cordial than what they had earlier, settled over them. It would be a while before a certain musician broke it with a pensive hum.

“Say, witcher, weren’t you the one suggesting we should have a talk?”

“Indeed,” he gulped down another chug of his vodka, saying drily, “I was beginning to lose hope on that, Poet.”

A burst of laughter escaped the troubadour, its sincerity surprising Geralt and, he suspected, even Shani. His eyes were much clearer than the witcher had anticipated when he nodded at Geralt. “Then talk we shall. I believe it will benefit us both when we do. Ask away, then. Dearest Shani, please don’t hesitate to join us.”

“Of course not, Dandelion.”

They conversed well into the dead of night, several glasses of liquor downed as their discussion ranged from general issues regarding the current state of the world to more personal ones, delving into how Shani and Geralt met for the first time and what happened afterwards.

“Hm,” was all Geralt could say to the blunt admission from Shani, a reaction that prompted a snicker from both parties.

“Don’t be such a baby, Geralt,” teased the young woman, a fond smile gracing her relaxed face. “It is now in the past, a history, and I have no intention of pursuing anything now, especially with your, hm... _unique_ situation. Unless, of course, you…?”

Shaking his head, he politely turned her down: “Not currently, no. But I, ah, thank you for the offer.”

She giggled. “Then we shall speak of it no more.”

When asked about his apparent demise—something that he has absolutely no knowledge of despite hearing about it from so many, Dandelion’s face crumpled instantly, a certain paleness overcoming his fair complexion. “I apologize, witcher, but I’ll have to decline. That is simply…off-limits for now,” he cleared his throat, “as I hope you understand. Hm…Would you instead like to hear about other people who were dear to you?”

Finding no fault in the sudden turn of topics, Geralt acquiesced.

After all, who else would be in their right mind to befriend a witcher?

He said as much to them, resulting in the two of them sharing an amused look with one another. Dandelion clicked his tongue. “Of all the things you had to retain, you foolish witcher, you chose this self-deprecating nature of yours,” he chided.

They were in a deep conversation about higher vampires and sorceresses despite Geralt’s stubborn protests when Zoltan finally arrived, clearly drained from whatever it was that had preoccupied him.

“Zoltan, at last! The man of the party has graced us with his presence!” exclaimed Dandelion with a flourish, a broad grin on his face as he stood to welcome the dwarf. “You _must_ convince Geralt that Regis the higher vampire was real—the poor man refused to take my word for some unfathomable reason.”

A look of surprise and guilt washed over the dwarven man as he spotted the minstrel, “Dandelion, ya sly bastard! I…I was not expecting you-”

“Nonsense!” he hugged the dwarf in greeting, laughing. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, old friend.”

“Ah bugger,” muttered Zoltan, returning the hug. “About Geralt- I wanted to let you know as soon as I can, lad, believe me. But then we got knee-deep in shit with the Order and…”

“No matter, Zoltan. I bore no hard feelings, I assure you,” interrupted Dandelion with a dismissive wave. “What matters is we’re all here now!”

“That’s right,” chimed in Geralt, shaking hands with the dwarf before leading him further into the room. “Let bygones be bygones, friends.”

After all, they had a celebration to partake in.

000

Somewhere during their celebration, Shani had decided they had enough booze for the night, ushering all of them into a corner of her room warmly lit by the roaring fireplace. Cushions littered all across the floor; snacks laid out within the reach of the five main spots—meticulously prepared for each of their comfort.

“I see you’ve been busy,” whistled Geralt in appreciation.

Flicking auburn locks out of her face, Shani rolled her eyes as she made herself comfortable on her own fort of pillows. “Naturally! I wanted us to have as pleasant an experience as we can, after all.”

“As expected of our beloved Shani!” boasted Dandelion with all the pride of one who had helped with everything (he hadn’t), face flushed.

“A thousand thanks to you, O’ great medic,” hummed Zoltan approvingly. “I can say for certain that I don’t regret answering Geralt’s call to come here, ha ha!”

Soon, they were all positioned snugly around the fireplace, vermillion and gold dancing around them like a blanket of warmth and security. It was a nice feeling, letting the light chase away the shadows plaguing his mind for as long as he can remember. A definite, huge improvement from the dank, reeking prison he had been subjected to a few days prior.

For the first time since opening his eyes in Kaer Morhen all those months ago—clueless and unaware of his place in this world, Geralt felt…safe. Was this how it was to be within friends? People he could trust without having to constantly worry whether or not they would be the next to bare their fangs at you?

Huffing quietly, he allowed himself a small smile as he gazed at the people jesting and guffawing around him. Perhaps this was all a trick, perhaps this false sense of security would be his downfall…

But as the great philosophers say, ignorance truly is a bliss.

“Sing for us, Dandelion!” boomed out the dwarf. “Surely a masterful bard such as yourself have something prepared for the eager folks.”

A brazen grin made its way to the minstrel’s face as he puffed out his chest, the red on his cheeks ever more prominent: “But of course! The great Master, _hic_ , Dandelion always has something up his sleeves, particularly for a special occasion with such a wonderful company of friends!”

Strumming his lute, the great bard cleared his throat several times. Then he raised his head, holding Geralt’s gaze steadily for a full second from across the half-circle they formed, before fanning his gaze over them all: “I’d also like to dedicate tonight’s performance to a very dear friend of mine who somehow found his way back to the land of the living and has decided to join us this faithful evening.”

Quieter, he added, most likely to himself: “May it reach him,” and sang.

Geralt—with his sensitive hearing that no doubt caught onto each word—listened closely.

And listened.

 _Ah_ , he thought as Dandelion’s voice slightly cracked near the end of his ballad, _I see what they mean now._

The bard truly does have a magnificent voice, despite everything else—not that he’d ever tell him outright.

000

“Thank you again for today, Shani,” said Geralt with a smile, the faint buzzing thanks to his liquor intake thankfully nothing too overwhelming, a pleasant hum in the back of his mind.

Shani rested her head on the doorframe, chuckling lightly. “Please, Geralt. It was nothing. It was the least I can do for you—for all of you.”

“Perhaps so, but we still appreciate it nonetheless, my dear!” interjected the slightly more intoxicated bard with a lopsided grin. Bowing dramatically before the medic, he grabbed her hand and planted a sloppy kiss on the back of it, inciting a huff of amusement from the young woman.

“Ever the charmer, Master Dandelion,” she snorted before leaning in, giving each other a familiar peck on both cheeks. Without hesitation, she did the same with Zoltan, even though they’ve only met; Geralt accepted and reciprocated the casual, affectionate gesture as best he can. A sudden, strong tug on his arm caught him off-guard and he came face-to-face with the brunette, their noses mere inches apart.

“My door’s always open if you ever need my help, alright?” mouthed the medic in earnest, lips pressed together in a small frown. He nodded.

“I’ll remember that. Thank you, Shani.”

A few seconds passed with him under her scrutiny, seconds of Geralt shifting awkwardly from one leg to another. Ultimately satisfied with whatever she saw, she nodded, letting go of his arm.

“Well, then,” sighed Zoltan, sauntering off into the streets. “I better be off now. Duty calls in the morn. And again, my deepest thanks to the beautiful lass Miss Shani for the awe-inspiring hospitality. It’s not often an ol’ dwarf such as me self get to experience such luxury. We shall meet again some other time, comrades!”

That left the three of them standing gawkily outside the house, the only other company being the creatures that croak and chirp at night. Shani coughed.

“I trust you both can take care of yourselves?”

Truthfully, Geralt worried over the inebriated state of the poet, but said poet brushed her off. “Of course, we can,” grumbled Dandelion with a hiccup. “Now you run along before Granny comes out thinking we’ve made off with you.”

Another peal of laughter, and they were alone. Again.

Midnight had indubitably passed and dawn now approached, torches burning lowly in the tranquil stillness of the darkest hour of the night. Solemnity filled the silence stretching out between them, the witcher finding it hard to articulate his most recent discovery. Glancing at the troubadour currently busy fighting with the clasps of his lute case, Geralt cleared his throat:

“You’re…not usually this quiet when drunk.”

A beat. Then a low chuckle. “Is that so? Lucky guess, I assume?”

“No.”

“Oh?”

“I…know so.”

Clasps abandoned, the bard snapped his head to look at him, face stricken once more and yet- that hopefulness was still there, clinging desperately on the surface beneath the haze of inebriety.

“Just that, Dandelion,” muttered Geralt half-heartedly, not wanting to see that sliver of hope disappear but unwilling to break the poet’s heart either, “I don’t remember anything else.”

But this did not seem to have disheartened him, instead emboldened the spark blazing behind too-bright eyes. “I see,” hummed the poet, scratching his chin pensively. “So my songs triggered your memories, I take it?”

“It appears so…What do you have in mind?”

The bard took off his bonnet, stroking the feather as he continued to ponder. _‘Huh,’_ Geralt thought, a sense of déjà vu momentarily seizing his perception. Something…somewhere…

“Tell me, witcher,” spoke Dandelion at last, peering at him under half-lidded eyes, the effects of the alcohol still noticeably taking hold. “Are you in a hurry to- to return to…wherever you chose to stay in at present?”

“Not really…no. Why-”

“Splendid!” exclaimed the musician with glee, placing his hat back and clapping his hands together. Eyebrow raised, Geralt stared dubiously at him.

“What do you say to a little visit to my humble abode before going back? I- There might be something there that could jog your memories! And…hm. How do I put this…” he staggered, scratching the back of his head.

“Please just spit it out, Dandelion.”

“…Ah, pox on it,” he mumbled. “There’s something I want to ask you too, Geralt. In private.”

“Huh.”

“What is it? Do you have any underlying concerns that I would take advantage of your amnesiac state? Because I assure you-”

“You finally called me by my name, poet,” smirked Geralt, tilting his head, “I can’t help but wonder if it was all deliberate on your part. That’s all.”

A part of him wondered whether pointing it out had been another huge mistake on his part. When the previously cheerful gleam of the bard’s façade dropped so suddenly, his chest tightened. _No_ , Geralt thought, a familiar memory edging its way to the surface—so close but so _out of reach_ —before it flew back into the haze of confusion, out of an outstretched hand. Beyond the fog was Dandelion himself, smile wiped clean off his face, expression unreadable.

Privately, he cursed.

“Perhaps so,” the poet shrugged indifferently, “no matter. Now, will you come with me or would I have to convince you of the integrity of my actions?”

“No need. Let’s go.”

A nod. “Come then.”

Ducking into the quiet streets at night, shadows trailing in every alleyway they passed, Geralt silently followed the minstrel, already accepting that he wouldn’t get any more explanation until they arrived. Dandelion’s steps staggered in a way only a drunken man would, but it wasn’t so alarming that the witcher considered coming to his side and aid him. But if the moment arose…

Well.

How frightening it was, when he thought it through. His willingness to follow someone who only vaguely reminded him of his past, without any knowledge of his intentions or anything substantial. The sensible part of him at war with other fragments of himself, demanding he ignore the man and turn around before any damage could be done. It snapped harshly at his naivety, trailing behind like a lost, foolish duckling.

 _And yet that is exactly what I am_ , he sighed. It will not get him anywhere, all this contemplating and suspicion, his mind at odds with whatever possibility reality presented to him. What harm could be done in search of his missing pieces? The poet was no fighter, that was a given; and neither was Geralt a defenceless peasant in need of protection despite his memory loss.

“Look at us,” quipped Dandelion all of a sudden, bringing him out of his reverie. “Two people who do not quite know one another, but one allows the other to his home and another following despite his doubts and reservations.”

He was giving him an out, realized Geralt with a start.

It _was_ true—he was under no illusion nor obligation to keep following this man who might or might not have crucial information for him. The man who was said to have been a close friend of his— _him_ , a lowly, fearsome witcher who more often than not was shunned by society itself. The man who struggled to meet his eyes throughout the course of the night, never calling him by his name. That is, until now.

If there was ever a better chance to duck out of his predicament, now was the perfect time to.

They’ve stopped somewhere between the main street and several buildings, Dandelion a few steps ahead as he played the guide. And the witcher decided.

“I have no intention of turning back if that’s what you’re worried about, bard.”

Darkness was never a hinderance to a witcher, and Geralt watched as the tension bleed out of the poet from his sagging shoulders.

With a nod, he then indicated the building in front of him, grinning back at the witcher. “Good, because we’re here.”

The building was no more special than the ones around it, timber framing the stones, wattle and daub filled in between like any other structure in the city. Without wasting anymore time, Dandelion unlocked the door with a key hidden beneath a barrel and ambled inside, gesturing at Geralt to follow.

He did.

“Do excuse the poor state of my room,” Dandelion babbled away, hand flourishing. “I wasn’t expecting any visitors tonight. As you’ve probably heard, I was asked to perform for Lord Velerad in his banquet a few days past, the whole reason I was permitted to enter this city at all really. There I met Shani and a few other old acquaintances of mine and immediately lost track of time as you’d expect.”

Geralt had nothing to say to that, and it seemed to him the poetaster was unbothered by his lack of respond by the slightest.

After trekking up two flights of stairs and passing four doors in the corridor, they finally stopped in front of one—nothing personable or worthy of note, merely a similar entity next to its siblings.

And beyond the entrance…lay a completely, utterly normal room. He turned to Dandelion, having expected something far more…devastating from the dramatic accounts of the troubadour. A small bed was pushed to the wall in the corner opposite of the entrance, beside it lay a cupboard with several papers of what he assumed were poetry and unfinished works of the poetaster. A single, narrow window hid behind closed blinds right across the door—one could peek at the dark outdoors from its gaps. An open chest was the only thing he could find on the wooden floor, containing what appears to be several clothes and ornaments spilling out of it, as well as more scrolls of parchment.

“Be a good lad and sit on the bed, please,” waved Dandelion, not noticing the weird looks he was getting. “It’s the only place untouched as far as I can see. And give me a moment to tidy everything up—it shouldn’t take too long.”

“…Of course.”

Dandelion was stalling. The way his fingers would clench into a fist the closer they got to his room, the strain in his back despite his attempt at appearing casual. And now that he could see his face without any obstructions—how his eyes would glaze over every once in a while, the look ordinary people would adopt when they retreat deep into their mind.

The bard was nervous, and Geralt couldn’t help but feel the same.

What is it exactly that he wanted to talk to him about?

“Right,” said Dandelion, after what seemed to be the hundredth time flitting here and about the small, cramped room, getting his hands on every single nit-picked displacement of the furniture and articles within. His voice trembled. “I’m sure you’re acutely aware by now that I’m merely prolonging the inevitable.”

“Indeed. Though I’m sure even a fool would have noticed,” replied Geralt carefully, gauging how the poet would respond to his remarks. One second, two-

A groan.

“Fuck all this,” snapped Dandelion, whirling around to march to his guest, his face twisted in a sneer. “There’s no use dillydallying any longer.”

Watching the man stomp his way to the bed he was occupying, Geralt subtly scooted to the side, allowing more room for two to sit—something the bard opted to ignore as he plopped down on the far side of the mattress.

“I’ve seen my fair share of oddity in my life, Geralt, and most of them by your side,” he sighed, leaning back against the wall. “But please believe me when I say I have never, ever expected to be haunted by a literal ghost of my own past. Not only do you resemble him, but the way you behave…I do hope you can sympathise how hard it is for me to come to terms with it, just as I’m sure it has been difficult for you, dear Witcher.”

Geralt watched him curiously from across the bed, his back supported by the headboard. “And yet you acknowledged the possibility. You acknowledged me, in the end.”

“I did,” he said, lips curved unpleasantly upwards.

“Why?”

“Because the more I talked to you, the more I stuck by you…the clearer it became to me that- that there is a chance that you really _are_ Geralt. I suppose one could say my fear of abandoning a friend in need outweighs my lingering trepidation.”

“That’s…actually quite noble of you, bard.”

“Is it though?” he huffed. Laughter in his eyes, a glint. “Am I _noble_ to indulge in my hopes that this- this too good to be true, second chance is real? That I can actually spend more time with a dear friend and may have risked something far more dangerous instead? Tell me, Geralt. Your honest opinion, please.”

Seconds passed as Geralt did as asked, mulling over the confession with the very little information he currently has. Sighing to himself, he shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed to hear my honest thoughts, Dandelion. To me, any possible hints to my past is worth exploring, no matter how…disappointing or shocking. I’m far more gullible than a newborn foal in this state, which pretty much puts me at a disadvantage no matter where I am.”

“Well then,” muttered the poet, “it’s decided. I shall tell you all you wish to know.”

“All?” Geralt perked up, sitting up more properly. “Truly?”

“ _Yes_ , Geralt. Although…we really don’t want you to be overwhelmed, do we? So I propose we go over the most important things first. Like, say…people you can trust, those you should be wary of and who you should never, and I mean _never_ , trust.”

“How will I know you won’t…lie or say, exaggerate any of it?”

“Come now, Witcher,” grinned the bard. “I’m a master of simplifications! I’ll make sure it’s all bite-size for you. As for lies…even if I promised you on my honor that I would never lie to you in this life or the next, it would mean very little in our situation, don’t you agree? I suppose you’ll just have to take my words with a grain of salt in this case.”

“Hm.”

“But before that,” he interjected, holding up a hand to stop Geralt from moving from his position. “Remember how you asked about your- your death earlier at Shani’s?”

“I did, although you were unwilling to talk about it. And despite everything, I don’t want to push you to answer-”

A firm shake of his head and Geralt clamped his mouth shut.

“Please, my friend,” smiled Dandelion ruefully, “I appreciate it. Truly I do. But I think you deserve to know more than anyone, even if you might not remember it…yet.”

“If you say so…”

“I do. Now come closer.”

Beckoning the Witcher to him, the distance between them shrunk till their knees almost touch, cross-legged, facing each other awkwardly on the small, creaking bed.

“Do you have any…recollections of your last moments? Any at all?”

“I told you,” groused Geralt, scowling. “None whatsoever. Not even how I felt…”

“…Well. It was worth a try anyway,” mumbled the bard, taking a deep breath to seemingly calm himself. Heartbeat spiking high, breath forcibly controlled, he was the very picture of panic, something Geralt couldn’t help but worry over. But then he met his eyes calmly, all traces of tremor in his voice gone.

“Have you heard of the Rivian Pogrom?”

“Yes. Although I’m also aware it is not the first time that has taken place.”

A bitter laugh echoed throughout the room, Dandelion sliding a hand over his face. “Indeed. Another mass-slaughter broke out that dreadful day in June 1268 sadly. A significant one. You…ran out to help the non-humans fight back—women, children, all slaughtered senselessly…I hid with Zoltan and the others inside while you were risking your neck out there for others despite your claims to do otherwise. Does any of this jog your memories?”

“No…forgive me.”

He waved it off. “No need, Geralt. Where was I? Ah yes-

“Were it not for Triss Merigold’s magically-induced hailstorm, the fight would have lasted much longer and…well. The outcome would have been much, much more devastating. Ah, speaking of Triss, do you remember her? Sorceress with hair like fire, blue eyes like mine?”

“Yes, I do…in a way,” replied Geralt, nodding slowly. “I met her right after I woke up in Kaer Morhen, where we fought off a group of assailants together with my brethren. She also tried helping me with my amnesia to no avail. I had the impression that she was…powerful, but nothing else comes to mind.”

“That she is,” chuckled Dandelion, an odd tone in his voice. “I’m glad you’ve met her already. I can’t imagine anyone else still alive you’d trust in your current state other than her and…well. A real shame she didn’t think to inform others sooner.”

“Perhaps she had other things in her mind? As Zoltan did?”

“Perhaps.”

They fell silent. Then without warning, the poet reached down and took out a demijohn, pulling one long gulp from the rounded bottle. Sniffing the air, Geralt confirmed that it was indeed alcohol.

He couldn’t help but ask: “Do you keep them within arm’s reach just for instances like these?”

A shrewd smile answered him. “What do _you_ reckon, witcher?”

He wisely decided to ignore the question. Instead, he extended a hand, sighing. “May I?”

“But of course!”

After a long sip, enough to feel the unmistakable burn of vodka, he returned it to its owner. Dandelion gulped down another and slapped a knee.

“Right,” he said, wiping the white froth on his mouth with his sleeves, coughing, “let’s not get off track.”

“Hm.”

“Now where was I…ah! Triss. While she was busy stopping everyone from killing each other by summoning a terrible, awful hailstorm, you were…you…”

There it was again—the withdrawal. The distress. Gaze vacant, something terrible without a doubt replaying behind tormented blue eyes, over and over-

“The ballads you sing about me,” whispered Geralt, unable to sit still and do nothing any longer, “folks say you never once sang about the day I fell. Not a single word from the great poet Dandelion, who was said to be a close companion of the ‘White Wolf’, the one to sing about his life and adventures so fervently.”

Said poet looked away, guilt written all over his face. “They would be right.”

“If this troubles you so,” he continued, resolve hardening, “then I refuse to go any further.”

“Geralt, please listen—”

“ _No_ , Dandelion. If I was half the friend I was to you back then…I doubt I’d ever wish to subject you to such pain. To see you shake and wither away at the mere mention of it. To smell the sorrow you project every bloody time it’s brought up, like- like _thorns_ stabbing at my chest. I may not have any memories of us both but…I don’t want this for you. I wouldn’t have.”

“But _I_ do. Don’t you get it?!” boomed Dandelion, straightening himself on the bed, expression thunderous. This was the first time Geralt saw pure fury explode on his otherwise sunny countenance, and a part of him couldn’t help but be impressed. “This- You _always_ do this, damn you! I honestly don’t know whether I should be overjoyed or extremely infuriated that this side of you has decided to emerge. You can’t _let_ me do anything, you dolt. I want to do this, I do! And I won’t let your foolishly-placed guilt get in the way of your recovery.”

“I could just choose to walk away.”

A smile, cracked in its corners. “True. Then I would be a heartbroken man indeed.”

Damn it all.

“ _Fine_ ,” he snarled, “do what you want, bard.”

A small breath of relief escaped him, along with a quiet ‘thank you’. Geralt said nothing.

Meanwhile Dandelion took another swig from the half-empty container, groaning from both the alcohol and most probably, his plight. The witcher did not so much as indicate that he was waiting, choosing to wait out whatever it is the poet wanted to tell him. Maybe if he was lucky, he might not even say anything.

“Did Triss not tell you?” Screw his non-existent luck.

“She said I must find out about the past by myself.”

A beat. Then-

“A pitchfork.”

“What?”

“You…you were taken out by a _pitchfork_ ,” repeated the bard, contempt saturating his words in such a potent amount that it was impossible for anyone not to hear. “A blasted, three-fanged spearhead that pierced through your _stomach_!”

Almost without realizing it, Geralt’s hand somehow found its way to his abdomen, hovering above where he knew the three peculiarly-punctured scars marring his disfigured skin were.

“So this is…”

“From a blasted pitchfork,” Dandelion hissed in reply, teeth gnashing against one another, lips quivering. “We were…we were too late. Yennefer risked her life…and Ciri was…Gods…the blood…”

Cautiously, Geralt pressed his fingers against the fabric just above the old injury—an injury among many others across his body that he did not remember ever receiving. The wound did seem rather out of place compared to his other deep gashes and cuts, but not entirely. Nothing about it had given him the impression that it had been the one to end his life. Nothing at all.

“…I see.”

A part of him had hoped that a sliver of memory would be unlocked by this new information—anything, _anything_ at all.

But his mind stayed blank. Void.

Empty as a dried-out demijohn.

He sighed deeply and miserably. So occupied he was by his own misery, he did not even notice Dandelion inching ever so closer to his side, not until he could hear his erratic heartbeat as loud as a crow’s caw.

Geralt titled his head just so, enough for the other man to pick up on his unspoken question.

“I…I know this might sound a touch strange coming from a stranger,” the poet gulped, staring at the window blinds, “and you can always refuse—not that I had to tell you that. But…if I may be so bold to ask…may I see it?”

“My wound?” His forehead creased. “But why-”

“I need to see it for myself, witcher,” he spoke softly, so soft in fact that his sensitive hearing strained to catch it. “You sound like him, walk just like him, even your attitude mirrors his on his best days—still. I can’t- I will never be completely certain until I see the very wounds that plague my nightmares with my own eyes.”

Before Geralt could even respond to it, he continued:

“But not unless you’re absolutely comfortable with showing me, of course,” he laughed with forced cheer, “I do not wish to impose on you in any way that might compromise your trust, my friend. After all we’ve only just met today and our…hm, reunion wasn’t quite the most personable experience for either of us, I’d say. I can and will understand if you do not wish to-”

“At peace, Dandelion,” he assured the frantic troubadour, laying a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’re babbling. I’ll do it, if only because this isn’t an unreasonable request.”

And so he quickly but meticulously took off his upper-body armour, taking his time with every buckles and buttons. It was not his intention to elongate the tension slowly overtaking the room in any way, but he also wanted to give a chance for Dandelion to back out—to take back his request that was clearly costing him a lot to go through with. As he lifted his inner-shirt to reveal the scarred tissue, Geralt took care to pay extra attention to how his so called-friend would react.

But Dandelion simply…stared. This time not at his face, but the three circular points thrusted into his torso a long time ago. Aware of how difficult it was to spot them in his hunched position, Geralt straightened his spine, leaned back and supported his weight with his hand, the other holding his shirt aloft. He kept his breathing as still as he could to prevent his muscles from shifting too much.

The bard was a lot calmer than he had anticipated, face borderline impassive as he leaned closer, studying the scabbed-over patch of skin as though stuck in a trance.

“May I?” he asked after a while, voice wavering and small, fingers tentatively reaching forward—to which Geralt nodded his consent. A tingle went down his back at the first feather-touch; so light he could barely feel it, but it was there.

This—the gentle prodding, trembling fingers resting lightly before pressing down over the scar—went on for much longer than he thought it would. It wasn’t the most pleasant feeling, being probed like some kind of wounded patient, but Geralt was determined to keep to his words and let the poet do what he needed to do, even if he wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Despite everything, he couldn’t help but feel strangely exposed—with Dandelion silently studying the scar with an unreadable expression, his thoughts locked away in a place Geralt could not reach.

Instincts instilled from probably years of training coiled and snapped, not liking this new progress, this unknown territory he had landed himself in.

But Geralt calmed his garish impulse, the irrational fears and worries. It was a mild discomfort he could live with—nothing compared to everything else he had been thrown into thus far.

An eternity seemed to have passed when Dandelion finally withdrew his hand, and the witcher slowly breathed out his relief. By the time everything was back in order, the bard was now facing the wall, the half-empty demijohn clutched in the same hand that had inspected his scars.

“They’ve healed quite nicely, I see.” His tone didn’t quite sound right, but Geralt simply shrugged.

“I suppose I owe whatever, or whoever saved my life that day.”

“Ciri- I suspect Cirilla did.”

“Ah…I’ve heard her many times, I’m aware of who she is or might be but…who exactly is she to me, Dandelion?”

“She’s your- she’s…” jaws snapping shut, a few seconds of silence, then: “What you would call a destiny. A daughter, and so much more. Someone very important and dear to you…your Destiny Child. Do you remember her, at least?”

Dandelion angled his head at the witcher, but strands of hair fell and concealed his face still. Geralt mulled over this—a child destined for him? Unless he was somehow an exception to the sterility of witchers, that could only mean he invoked the Law of Surprise somewhere along the Path, something he thought he would never do.

What could have possibly caused him to do something so… _foolish_?

Then again, neither had he believed in Destiny.

But to be able to call another his own? A daughter? Him, a witcher whose life was too dangerous for a child that the choice was taken away from him from the very start?

Geralt sighed, murmured: “No. I’m afraid not.”

“…I see,” murmured Dandelion back just as softly.

The Witcher had feared that he would continue to wallow in his own thoughts, leaving him to pick up the pieces that would not fit. But his fears were unfounded when the bard picked up his discarded lute at the foot of the bed, nimble fingers picking the strings, strumming a familiar tune he had heard in taverns many times—though never from its original composer.

_A wandering soul in seek of his child_

_No rivers nor bloodshed shan’t stop_

_His plight, an endless fight_

_O’ slayer of monsters whose heart throb_

And so goes the song—‘The Ballad of the Lioncub of Cintra’ folks dubbed it. A song penned by the troubadour beside him, famed from as far as the Buina to the Yaruga; known to all from the young’uns to the elderly. A song recounting the tales of a witcher, his sorceress lover and ultimately, the pursuit of the lost princess.

Geralt find it hard to believe it was about him.

But somehow…a part of him resonated with it, for reasons he could not comprehend. Somewhere along the way, the tone of the ballad shifted, morphed into such a sad, woeful tune that Geralt was momentarily thrown off.

He sang of unicorns and vanishing boats; of magic and heartbreak. Of even more sacrifice.

It seemed to be a reoccurring theme in his ballad.

The piece ended on a low, sombre note, the last chord echoing throughout the small chamber.

“That last stanza was never sung to anyone,” said Dandelion, after some time. “No one.”

Geralt said nothing. Neither did Dandelion, who had settled his lute on his lap to guzzle down his vodka that was quickly diminishing.

“Dandelion,” he said, “I should leave.”

“What?”

“I thank you for inviting me to your humble lodging and helping me this far, but I think we both know this isn’t going anywhere.”

“Then what? Are you suggesting we give up?” scoffed the bard.

“No,” frowned Geralt. “All I’m saying is maybe we should let time run its course. Triss told me so—we shouldn’t rush nor force it. I doubt everything will come back all at once…”

Dandelion stroked the neck of his lute as though it was a priceless possession, thoughtful.

“Perhaps you are right, witcher,” sighed the poet, deeply and with feeling. “This is a situation well beyond our expertise. Only time will tell.”

“Indeed,” said the witcher, watching how Dandelion sagged where he sat, swooshing his bottle of alcohol from left to right. Still refusing to look at him. “Besides…” he added, dipping his head, “it’s late and I’ve overstayed my welcome, poet. My presence here only seems to serve as a painful reminder to you without much good for either of us, and I apologize.”

“Oh, you’re such a fool, Geralt,” admonished the poet, shaking his head. “A self-loathing, ignorant fool who fails to see what’s right under his nose, if only because he’s too stubborn to look past the hatred and helplessness he feels for himself.”

Geralt bristled. “Excuse me?”

“Despite losing all your memories,” continued Dandelion, now scrutinizing his well-kept nails, “you, my friend, still retain your terrible habit of fearing the worst and running away from said problem before it could be resolved. Like a…a frightened deer who was caught by surprise and has no other means than to flee.”

“Is that so?” Geralt mocked.

“I know so,” said the bard, undeterred. A beat. Then, quieter: “Or at least, I assumed I do. Truth be told, witcher, I am not certain about a lot of things as we speak. By some miracle or perhaps something more sinister, you came back to life. You…”

Dandelion took a shaky breath, facing Geralt at last. His eyes met Geralt’s—they were misty.

“I watched you die, Geralt,” he murmured, anguish contorting his face into something ugly as seconds ticked by. “You who died in my arms, blood soaking my shirt. I watched as Yennefer sacrifice her life trying to save you—I should know, I carried her myself. I watched as Ciri take you both away. I- I saw it with _my own eyes_.”

Not knowing what to say, Geralt kept his mouth shut, looking away.

Nothing he say would make this better.

Dandelion was right yet again—he would much rather be anywhere else right now. Anywhere he would not have to witness the glass fracturing with his too-critical eyes, no knowledge of their past to help guide him. Clueless.

Dread sat chillingly in his chest, heavy and inconvenient, when he caught the bard reaching out to him before freezing midway, smiling weakly in apology. Out of everything that had happened that night, it was the one thing he recognized. The one thing he could do right by.

Steeling for what he was about to do, Geralt released a barely audible sigh. Opened his arms slightly, just enough to show what he was offering—a confused noise escaped the bard at his gesture.

“Triss had the same expression when she saw me, right as she launched herself at me,” said the witcher by way of explanation, discomfited and tense.

“Ah!” Dandelion burst into a shaky laughter. “I suppose I have something to thank her later.”

It was still uncomfortable as before, Geralt decided. But there was something pleasant in the way Dandelion did not rush his approach, unlike the sorceress. The bard’s hold was firm, if a little tight—but not so tight that the witcher felt trapped at any point. He was content. Trusting.

It was a feeling he could get used to, he decided again.

Desperate and unyielding, Dandelion hung onto him, arms wrapped solidly around the witcher. Chest heaving unnaturally, shaking shoulders, salt in the air, as though-

…Ah. Well.

Who was he to refuse an honest, tearful embrace?

“I wish I could tell you how, Dandelion,” he muttered, a solid hand on the poet’s back. “I really wish I could.”

A sniff. Then a weak chuckle.

“I know, Geralt. Truly I do.”

* * *

~000~

* * *

“So you technically work for the government. _You_ , Dandelion? I had assumed confidentiality was not among your many skillsets from what I’ve heard of you and your...impressive reputation.”

“Oh, hush now, drop the sarcasm. I wouldn’t say that I _work_ for them, frankly speaking,” the bard grimaced. “As a free citizen of the world, I have a duty to the people and by extension, the people in charge of keeping our peace, no matter where they hail from. And so I offer them my services, for a good fee anyway…”

“Of course,” Geralt snorted. “It always comes down to money, hm? My line of work after all demands a similar trade, except I only deal with certain lords and creatures that do not concern themselves with political skirmishes between humans or non-humans.”

“No need to be so cynical, witcher,” huffed Dandelion, taking another bite of his cured ham. “One cannot simply feed himself with poetry, such is the world. And need I remind you that you yourself more or less peddled in said skirmishes in your, hmm, past life?”

“I thought we agreed not to broach my past right now, bard.”

“That we did. But I couldn’t resist, my friend. Surely you can understand that!”

Dandelion flashed him an insolent grin, scraping his plate clean with a smack of his lips.

Shaking his head, Geralt quickly inhaled the rest of his own serving before standing up, wiping the last drop of beer from his beard.

He really ought to have it shaved soon; the itch on his skin was bothering him terribly.

“Thank you for the treat, Dandelion, and…everything else,” Geralt smiled at the bard. “We’ll talk some more when we meet again, I’m sure.”

“ _Pah_ , don’t mention it. It’s nothing a friend wouldn’t do,” waved away the poet. “Let me walk with you, at least.”

Grabbing his lute and bonnet, he followed Geralt out the door, humming another familiar tune. The last tune he sang before they parted ways last night (or more accurately, earlier this morning). After a good, long rest, they had agreed to meet up at the local tavern to properly go over the difficult situation Geralt was currently tangled in and other important things he might have missed at present times—things Dandelion felt both of them should be aware of. A necessary information exchange, he had called it proudly.

Somehow they managed to reach even the bard’s professional double life, which- Geralt was not proud to admit that his curiosity had a hand in it as well. So much so that much time had gone by, the sky darkening into a pretty indigo.

“So,” the bard said, “off to this Maarloeve fellow, I presume?”

“Yes. Anything else I should be aware of?”

“Other than him being extremely parsimonious? No.” Dandelion wrinkled his nose. “If what your friend Sir Siegfried of Denesle say is true, I see no reason not to trust the man. Although I haven’t had the pleasure to be acquainted with him myself, I’ve heard that his dedication in certain…areas is commendable. Besides, we share mutual allies with Codringher and Fenn. Forgive me—‘shared’. Remember them?”

“I can’t believe I do. Mutual ally of ours, you say?”

“They were a law firm, detectives if you will, based in Dorian,” he plucked out a single stray of straw that managed to land itself on his hat. Shrugging, the bard stuck it between his teeth and continue to jabber: “Quite the help back then for a handsome sum, I’ll say. Alas, my dear witcher, death came to their doorsteps as sudden and mysterious as a vampire on a hunt, fires blazing out of the old-rickety building. Or so the rumours say.”

“So they won’t be of any help.”

“Unless you can ask your sorceress friends to perform necromancy…I'm afraid not.”

They continued to walk in silence, Dandelion plucking a chord or two every now and then but never deciding on a particular song.

“Have you no steed, by the way?” quipped Dandelion all of a sudden.

“No. Not at the moment.”

He tutted, “A shame, a shame. A witcher without a faithful steed? One might even claim he’s an impostor.”

“Unfortunately,” said Geralt wryly, “to acquire one, one must have the proper funds. Funds which I currently do not possess.”

“An unfortunate truth indeed,” Dandelion hummed, still chewing on a straw, “a fact we'll have to rectify later. Say, what would you name your mare? Or stallion, if it makes any difference to you.”

Geralt fell silent.

“Roach.”

“Oh?”

“It came out of nowhere,” admitted Geralt. “But that’s the name I’d give my horse; preferably a mare, because they are usually more docile and easier to reign in when panicked- Do you really find it that amusing?”

“No, no,” snickered the poet, struggling to catch his breath, “ha! Not at all! It’s the perfect name for a majestic steed. Yes, yes, quite fitting for you.”

“What would _you_ name yours?”

“Pegasus.” It was stated with such confidence, chest puffed out with swelling pride that Geralt felt his own laughter bubble up into the surface. He managed to smother it into a simple smile.

“I have the slightest inkling that that should not surprise me at all, knowing you as little as I do now.”

“Why, aren’t you quite the comedian, Geralt! Have you perchance considered switching up your profession? I know a few who are in need of new jesters and-”

“Dandelion?”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Shut up.”

Glancing at the bard, who ducked his head in a poor attempt to hide his mirth, Geralt decided that yes—this felt right. Despite everything they had gone through in only less than a day, he knew. His puzzle was far from finished, his identity still in shambles…but he knew this to be true, this friendship he currently has, and had before, with Dandelion.

Even if he must waddle through the murky waters while partially blinded, his attempts to regain and compile all the scattered pieces in vain—at the very least, he could count on this.

On his friend.

The entrance to the sewers was now just beyond their sight; by extension, the building where Raymond Maarloeve was said to reside in, and Geralt knew this was where they part. He inclined his head at the troubadour:

“See you later, Dandelion.”

The poet only laughed; a bright, rippling laughter that sounds right and proper on him.

“I’m just around the corner if you ever need me, Geralt,” he smiled wide and warm—a particular smile that spoke of a promise. A simple truth. “Always, my friend. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to include Geralt asking Dandelion about Yennefer here, but I realized it would take far too much out of the focus of this story because 1) I love Yen and she deserves a whole fic dedicated to her, and 2) Geralt would be far too overwhelmed haha; I think at certain point he wanted to ask who this 'Yennefer' is, but each time Dandelion was close to breaking down, which is a big nono to Geralt.
> 
> (In case it wasn't clear, I am absolutely, shamelessly deviating from game!canon !! ;D Watch me take apart the plot to choose which parts I like haha)
> 
> Let me know if you want to see me tackle Yen too!
> 
> Comments/feedback are much appreciated <3


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